


The Witching Hour

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar and Luke spend the night in the woods. Luke won't admit he's afraid of the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "campfires and ghost stories".
> 
> Luke is 17.

It's past midnight when Sylar stops the car, pulling over into a break in the woods that line the road.

Luke has been dozing with his feet on the dashboard and his face smushed against the window. There are red crease lines all over his cheek. "Why are we stopping?"

"Tired."

"We're in the middle of nowhere…" But the engine is off and Sylar's out the car, slamming the door without a glance back. With the headlights off, the night is near pitch black and, without the car's heating, cold. Luke scrabbles after Sylar as his silhouette starts to disappear into the night.

The stars are useless for seeing and Luke stumbles forward with his arms outstretched to feel his way, heart beginning to pound as the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

"We should stay near the car, you know!" he shouts out into the emptiness around him. He's greeted with nothing but silence. His skin starts to prickle with gooseflesh and he turns his head blindly this way and that, trying to spot Sylar as they wade deeper into the woods.

"Okay, Sylar, this isn't funny," he says. The panic that's building inside him is leaching out through his voice. Every rustle of leaves is making him jump and the snap of twigs underfoot rings ominously from every direction. Luke can't get his bearings, but keeps pressing forward.

"This is how it starts in horror films, y'know. You pull over to piss and then the next thing you know you're… Uff!"

Luke slams into Sylar's back.

Luke _really_ hopes Sylar isn't actually taking a leak.

There's a crackle in the air and a soft blue glow all around. Sylar holds a ball of electricity on his palm. He clears his throat and Luke inches back, casting his eyes around the clearing they're in as he nonchalantly puts his hand to Sylar's waist and white-knuckles the hem of his t-shirt.

Luke's glad that the low lighting hides his blush as Sylar slaps his hand away and barks out a laugh. "Afraid of the dark?" he teases.

" No!" Luke yelps, trotting quickly to stay close behind Sylar as he wanders deeper into the underbrush. "I'm just… cautious. There are a lot of things in the woods that can get you: wolves, mountain lions, escaped convicts…"

Sylar snorts. "We're the most dangerous things out here."

"Maybe," Luke mutters. "But I can't a nuke a mountain lion that's jumped on my back in the dark. It's fine for you, you heal."

"Mmm hmmm." Sylar concedes the point but doesn't seem to really care that he's leading Luke to his inevitable death.

"I really think that we should go back to the car," he tries again. "In case we need to make a quick getaway or something."

"A quick get away from what?"

"From whatever…" Luke says weakly. "Hooked-handed axe-wielding maniacs…" he adds under his breath.

"Anyone with a hook for a hand wouldn't be able to successfully swing an axe," Sylar deadpans. "They'd gut you with the hook."

"Thanks…" Luke mutters. Then, he says, not screeches like a little girl like Sylar will later try to assert, "Sylar!" The lightening ball that's been guiding them is suddenly and completely extinguished. The dark that slams down all around him is worse than it was before, black like tar and twice as thick. Luke's eyes struggle desperately to adjust.

"Sylar?" he hisses. This time he doesn't move. He hugs himself, shivering where he stands, and tries to pretend that it's the cool autumn air that's making every hair on his body stand on end.

There's a rustle to the left. Luke strains to hear; clothes caught on willowy branches? "Sylar?"

"Sylar?" The crack of snapping twigs to the right; the sound of dry leaves shaking; a shrub that's being disturbed?

Squirrels, Luke thinks, or birds or field mice or Sylar messing with him to be a dick, it has to be. Still, he curls in on himself pathetically, thrumming with adrenaline that makes his chest burn and his muscles twitch. Under his skin, his ability pulses at the ready.

_Thump, thump, thump_ up ahead. Heavy footfalls in the distance. The swish and rustle of something being dragged over grass.

"Sylar?"

Luke leans forward to catch the sound again. Nothing.

"Sylar?"

The sound of laboured breathing coming from his left. Luke holds his breath. Silence.

He exhales a sigh, chuckling nervously. The breath, again; now from his right. Luke whimpers.

"Sylar?"

Nothing. He wheels around.

"Sylar?"

The whisper of breath directly to the back of his neck. A hand slapped down on his shoulder. The sudden whoosh and crackle of flames half a foot from his face. His own piercing scream echoing all around them.

Sylar doubled over beside him, cracking up. The light from the campfire casting eerie shadows on his face.

"You asshole!" Luke shouts. He's shaking harder now as his heart tries to pound through his chest and his lungs heave like he'd run away as fast as he could exactly like he wanted to but didn't.

"You dickhead!" he cries, a little softer. Laughter is catching up with him now, chasing away the remaining fear and filling him up with hysteria.

"You're a real jerk," he mutters, punching a still-chuckling Sylar on the arm.

"I made a fire for us, didn't I?" And he has, twigs and braches are neatly stacked and burning steadily, all trapped inside an exact ring of rocks. Luke wonders if Sylar used to be a boy scout.

Luke slaps him on the arm again because a prank like that deserves retaliation, but Luke's still too jittery to think of something witty to say or do, falling back on the familiar instead. He jostles Sylar's shoulder and elbows him lightly in the side.

"A real asshole, dickhead jerk…" he murmurs, shoving at Sylar's hips, turning to face him when Sylar shoves back.

"I hate you," Luke whispers, leaning into Sylar's face. "You're mean," he says, groaning when Sylar ducks his head and pulls Luke's pouting bottom lip between his teeth.

"So mean," Sylar agrees, tongue sliding along Luke's lips, flicking inside Luke's mouth when he moans.

Luke's knees feel weak and he's sure it's the after effects of the scare, nothing at all to do with Sylar's stubble abrading his smooth cheeks or Sylar's hand curving around his ass, dragging Luke nearer to straddle his thigh, notching Luke's erection to the ridge of his hip. He sags into Sylar's arms, clinging to his shoulders and clawing at his shirt, feeling his way up under Sylar's t-shirt and groping the hard lines of the torso beneath. Luke kisses him deep and hard and possessive, as fiercely as if he really has narrowly escaped the clutches of a psychopath instead of writhing in one's embrace.

Luke grunts into Sylar's mouth. His cock is aching already and he's shamelessly humping Sylar's leg. His hands go for Sylar's belt, trembling as they it open. He hisses when the buckle slaps back and raps him on the knuckles. And then, Sylar's undoing his pants, too, thumbing open the button and ripping open his fly. Luke delves into Sylar's boxer-briefs as his own pants and underwear fall, crumpled, to his knees. They kissing roughly, all teeth and invasive tongues, letting the frenetic pace of their mouths set the rhythm of their hands.

Sylar's cock is long and thick. Luke can barely close his fist around it as it pulses hot against his palm. He can't manage anything more creative than the quick up-down slide with fingers wrapped tight, that he favours on himself because Sylar is jacking him too, twisting his wrist and doing toe-curling, breath taking, mind blowing things with his thumb around and below the head of Luke's dick.

"Sylar…" he groans. "Sylar!" And now if he sounds panicked it's because the adrenaline is back, and a million other hormones, too, good this time, so fucking good and there's no way he's not gonna fall down on his ass the moment he comes.

The heat that's pooling in Luke's gut and burning in his chest, that's flaring in his thighs and tugging at the back of his balls seems to rush through him from nipples to knees in a flash and then it's converging on his dick and he's coming. Coming and panting and gasping, and clinging to Sylar so desperately that he nearly topples them over. He spurts onto Sylar's jeans, a messy wet patch seeping through the denim high on his thigh. In the back of Luke's mind, he knows he'll pay for that loss of control later. A thrill shivers up his spine, cock jumping in Sylar's loosening fist as he wonders how he'll be punished; a spanking is probably too much to hope for.

And then, Sylar is saying, "Luke!" with a sharp and demanding voice and the telekinetic fingers that dig into his hips as they hold him up drag Luke through the fog of his afterglow back into the here and now.

"Sorry," Luke mumbles, tongue still thick with post coital bliss and lips still swollen from kissing. He jerks Sylar's dick quickly, spreading the pre-come that dribbles from his tip, trying to emulate the things that Sylar has done to him. He mustn't have the knack quite yet, because Sylar's hand clamps down over his and he's being held still and tight around Sylar's shaft as Sylar thrusts in and out of their joined fists.

He comes with an almost silent groan, one split second of tension that holds his body still and then there's semen spilling onto Luke's hand and Sylar's too, staining the hem of Luke's sweatshirt as sticky and wet as Luke had left Sylar. Sylar leans on him heavily, breath coming in ragged pants that tickle Luke's ears where Sylar curls around him, letting Luke hug him down from his climax.

When Luke tilts up his chin, nuzzling a little at Sylar's jaw and begging wordlessly for a kiss, Sylar grants it. Tender now where before they were frantic, their lips move against each other, kissing until their breathing slows. When they break apart, Sylar scowls down at the mess they've made and Luke scrunches up his nose as he tentatively laps at the wetness on his hand.

"Ew…" he mutters at the bitter, chlorine taste of Sylar's cooling spunk. He crouches down and wipes his hand on the grass, letting microwaves radiate out to sterilize his skin when some sticky still remains.

Sylar's zipped himself up and settled by the fire, long legs sprawled out in front of him. When Luke sits beside him and cuddles up to him, Sylar only grunts.

They watch the fire as it crackles, the flames casting a warm, orange glow over them. "You know," Sylar whispers in his ear. "You're totally fucked now. The slutty ones are always the first to die."


End file.
